Chapter 5

Alexis looked like he was going to be sick. He slumped back in the armchair, his face ashen, his hands trembling slightly in his lap. The revelation had short-circuited his brain.

"She never said..." he muttered, staring blankly at the floor. "She never told me..."

Blair stood over him, her expression carved from ice. Watching him crumble, her mind involuntarily flashed back to three years ago.

The memory was vivid. A run-down jazz club in Brooklyn. The smell of stale beer and wet asphalt. A young Alexis, wearing a cheap, stained uniform, being berated by a red-faced executive. The executive had screamed at him, calling him trash, while Alexis stood there, fists clenched at his sides, a fire of pure, desperate ambition burning in his eyes.

Blair had seen that fire. It had mirrored her own. She had stepped in, paid the man off, and handed Alexis her card. She had spent three years shaping that raw clay. She had taught him how to walk, how to talk, how to smile. She had begged her Aunt Joella for the favor that landed him his breakout role.

And now, the clay had decided it didn't need the sculptor anymore.

The coldness in Blair's chest hardened into something impenetrable.

A sharp knock on the door shattered the silence.

Before Blair could respond, the door swung open. A tall, broad-shouldered man strode in. He wore a perfectly tailored navy suit, his dark hair swept back, his features aristocratic and refined. He took in the scene-Blair standing, Alexis looking destroyed-and a faint, amused smirk touched his lips.

It was Tristan Cromwell. Her cousin.

Tristan walked straight past Alexis as if he were a piece of furniture. He reached Blair, and without a word, he picked up her black cashmere coat from the back of the sofa and draped it over her shoulders. His movements were natural, protective, and incredibly familiar.

"Blair," he said, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "Why are you hiding in here? It's cold." He reached up and ruffled her hair, a familiar, brotherly gesture that instantly softened the sharp lines of her face.

Blair felt the knot in her shoulders loosen just a fraction. The tension that had been gripping her spine since she walked into the party seemed to dissolve slightly in his presence.

"Tristan," she said, looking up at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Taking you home," Tristan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Aunt Joella has been calling non-stop."

Alexis, still slumped in the chair, watched this interaction with wide eyes. A sharp, bitter spike of jealousy pierced through his shock. Who the hell was this guy? The way he touched her, the way he looked at her-it wasn't professional. It wasn't just friendly. It was possessive.

Tristan finally turned his head, acknowledging Alexis for the first time. His eyes were polite, but the look was utterly dismissive, like a king glancing at a peasant.

"Mr. Ashley," Tristan said with a curt nod. "Congratulations on your award."

Alexis scrambled to his feet, his face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and anger. He looked like a mess next to Tristan's polished perfection.

Tristan turned back to Blair, his expression softening instantly. "Let's go. Don't waste another second on things that don't matter."

The words were a slap across Alexis's face. He was the "thing that didn't matter."

Blair nodded. She adjusted her coat, preparing to leave without a backward glance at Alexis.

"Wait!" Alexis blurted out, unable to stop himself. The jealousy was eating him alive. "Who are you?"

Blair stopped. She turned her head slowly, looking at Alexis over her shoulder. Her eyes were empty, as if she were looking at a stranger she never wanted to see again.

Tristan smiled. It was a confident, predatory smile. He stepped closer to Blair, placing one arm securely around her shoulders, a clear gesture of protection.

"I'm her family," Tristan said, his voice dropping low and sharp. "And you're done wasting her time."